When she heard the click of a key turning in the lock, it took every ounce of self-control not to leap to her feet and whirl to face the intruder. She did turn her head, though, when she heard the door open and shut in a quick flurry, and then soft-footed steps hurried across the room toward her.
It was Cassius.
She did stand, then, flushing hot with anger. She tripped on her skirt, cursed, windmilled her arms, and he caught her by the waist to steady her.
She froze, hand clenched tight in the fabric of his sleeve for balance, their equally shocked gazes locked. She hadn’t realized he was near enough to catch her, and now his hands were firm and large, crushing the thick silk of her dress to her sides.
He exhaled, shakily, and his breath was warm against her face.
“Let go of me,” she hissed, and he snatched his hands from her as though burned.
He lifted them up to shoulder-level, empty palms toward her—but he didn’t retreat. Amelia didn’t either, on principle, not wanting to be seen cowering in front of a Sel, which meant they still stood close enough to stir one another’s hair with their rapid, heated breath.
Too close. Far too close.
“What do you—” she started, and he interrupted.
“I don’t have much time, he’ll be along right after me, so you must listen.”
She’d been fretting for hours, but now she felt the prickles of renewed panic. “Who’ll be along right after you?”
She’d never seen him look less like a slave: panting, frantic, his eyes huge. “The king’s son. His heir. Marcellus.”
Amelia breathed in, and breathed out.
Cassius said, “The emperor means for him to marry you.”
The shock and outrage that flowered inside her were too intense to be voiced. She stood rooted, numb.
“The emperor has said he’ll reward me by allowing me to act as your personal servant, so please—”
The door opened.
Cassius stepped back in a neat pirouette, folded his hands demurely in front of him, and wiped all expression from his face. He was once again the soulless slave, ready for a master’s every order.
Heart beating wildly in her throat, Amelia turned toward the door, and the man who strode through it.
He wasn’t as tall, broad, or formidable as Romanus, but the family resemblance was clear. The same high brow, sharp cheekbones, and regal nose. He was dressed in breeches, tall boots, and a padded doublet of the sort men wore beneath armor, and his white hair was matted with dried sweat where it lay against the back of his neck.
He heeled the door shut without looking, slamming it home, and his gaze snapped to Amelia…and then raked up and down her in a thorough scrutiny. His mouth was a cruel slash in his pale face, his pale eyes narrow and cold.
His upper lip curled, and he turned to Cassius. “This is her?”
Cassius bowed his head. “Yes, my lord.”
The son turned back to her, openly sneering, now.
The emperor means for him to marry you, Cassius had said, moments before.
Her stomach turned. “If the dress doesn’t please, my lord,” she said, “then you can blame whoever picked it out for me, because I can promise I don’t normally wear this sort of thing.”
His gaze narrowed. He tipped his head back. “Is that how you address your betters in Drakewell?”
“Yes.”
His expression didn’t change, but he moved with sudden swiftness, closing the distance between them in a few long strides, arm rearing back.
Amelia ducked the slap he aimed at her cheek.
